


Fic: The Scars on your Skin

by samstjames



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-23
Updated: 2009-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samstjames/pseuds/samstjames





	Fic: The Scars on your Skin

** Title ** – The Scars on your Skin  
** Author ** \-  Sam St. James  


** Disclaimer ** \- characters are not mine

You shiver, although you're already half-asleep or maybe even more asleep than awake right now, as my lips caress the long scars on your shoulder that look like the strike of a claw from a big, big animal. It’s easily possible to distinguish five long lines, one from every _finger_ as they slashed deep into your soft skin– it’s been a weevil and you were seeking the danger, being just too reckless, not caring about life and death anymore. But right then, when dark-red blood was seeping through your ripped shirt and jacket, and your face visibly paled, though you seemed radiant and excited from the adrenaline rush, fear had gripped me so hard that I didn't even scold you, at least not before the doctors had stitched you up properly. I think I’ve never been so mad in my life before and I got a little carried away telling you off, saying or rather shouting things I shouldn’t have said.

My fingers trace the slightly discoloured skin and feel the change in texture; the tissue feels even softer than the rest of your silken skin, more vulnerable. The scar isn't too old and hasn't faded yet, its redness forming a stark contrast to your pale skin. I feel your whole body tremble and the breath hitches in your throat when my tongue caresses the sensitive tissue.

There is another scar at the nape of your neck, right below your hairline. I'm not even sure that you know it's there, because it's really tiny. I believe it is from a glass shard that hit you there when the boardroom more or less exploded after you opened the rift. I don't think you even felt the small cut then because you had other things on your mind, but the scar is still there and always will be, reminding me of your betrayal (which hurt me pretty much although I can understand why you did what you did) my own painful helplessness being faced with your anguish and my weakness, because despite my words I’d never have shot you – and you know it. The thin line of scartissue shimmers slightly in the ghostly blue light coming from the screensavers of the idle computerscreens that are the only lights in the Hub at this time of the night. There's a low hum, like a purr, in the back of your throat that vibrates through your skin and tickles me when my lips place gentle kisses all around the scar on your neck.

I love the smell of shampoo of your still slightly damp hair, as I press a slight kiss to the back of your head and imagine you smile into the pillow. You chuckle a bit and somehow, maybe because the pillow is muffling it, it's a dark and sexy chuckle, which causes me to take deep calming breaths to keep my desire for you at bay or at least to keep it at the same barely bearable level at which we always interact. It’s a narrow path to walk on, and we both know it, trying to avoid any sidesteps at all costs, because we fear the possibly devastating aftermath.

An almost violent shudder shakes you when my lips now trail further down your back, all kisses and tongue and teeth along the delicate line of your spine, relishing in the sweet taste of your freshly washed skin while the intoxicating smell of what must be uniquely you, mixed with the cleanliness of soap, invades my senses.

My hands slide over your bare arms, my right hand carefully stroking over yet another scar. It's actually from a thrust with a sword of a goddamn knight who got stranded here as he fell through the rift and went straight for riot. You could've lost the arm all too easily; the doctors were terrified, seeing that the sharp blade had even left a small dent in the bone from when you raised your arm to block the deathly blow that aimed to behead you. But you've been lucky, the gun (which was actually cut in half’s) you held in the other hand took most of the force out of the blow, and I had to put some bullets into the not so lucky knight.

When my hands reach yours, I turn my attention to them, to those gentle fingers, long and slender and soft, those fingers that are also scarred. Tiny, barely visible scars cover the insides of your fingers; they're remnants of an almost-end-of-the-world-mission when you dangled helplessly down from a chain link fence on the embankment, almost dropping down into the water as the pelting-bolts of the fence nearly popped. The metal wires cut into your hands as you entwined your fingers in them, struggling to survive. I was the one to pull you up again, but right then I was too riled, too wired, too much at the edge myself to even care about the blood dripping from your injured fingers. Only later I felt sorry for my angry words as I told you and the terribly beaten up rest of the team off for acting like amateurs. But now, right now, I fondle, kiss each of them and I enjoy it when I feel your whole body move as you take a deep breath now while I suck one finger after the other into my mouth and tease them with my tongue.

I’m almost surprised you haven’t interrupted my doings and sent me to hell already, because to your knowledge I’m only fooling around (I suppose you have no idea how serious I actually am) and apart from that I’m also very effectively preventing you to sleep. It’s been a hard day and you’re exhausted; maybe you're just too tired to protest.

The lack of your clothes right now is easily explained with the fact that they are still too wet to wear from washing which applies for all sets of clothing actually: your regular ones and your two sets of spare clothes. It’s been a really, really bloody and muddy day; and that you were flung into the bay didn’t help either.

Since Rhys is in London on a business trip this week I offered you to just stay in the Hub and sleep in my bed – or more or less share it with Ianto, who’s also still here – rather than bring you home only wrapped in a towel (think about what the neighbours would say…); you were too tired to really mind Iantos presence, but I still had to use all my charms to convince you not to sleep on the couch. I didn’t offer you a shirt to sleep in and you didn’t ask, which in the end, led to you lying in my bed right now with only your panties on; not that I’m complaining.

When I'm satisfied with the amount of attention I dedicated to your fingers I let my hands slide back up your arms, over your shoulders, down your back, caressing your skin all the way down to your hips. Your warm skin feels so welcoming, so creamy and smooth under my fingers that I have to suppress a moan; the sensuality of this task is making it hard for me to stay focussed. And I'm obviously not the only one who's caught up in the moment as your breathing is starting to be a little erratic and your muscles twitch slightly under my well-practiced knowing touches.

About five inches above the slightly protruding budge of your hipbone – I will have to keep an eye on you to make sure you to eat more properly in the future as you’re obviously starting to get unhealthily skinny – is a piece of dark brown scab that disturbs the smoothness of your skin. A stray bullet from a freaked out soldier grazed you three days ago on yet another almost-end-of-the-world-mission as you named it. You let out a quiet whimper and your chest heaves due to your sharp intake of breath when my fingers tenderly touch it, afraid to cause you pain, but fascinated nonetheless. The rough texture of the scurf stands in stark contrast to the velvety smoothness of your skin. You take in another sharp breath as my lips stop only millimetres above the healing injury, my breath lightly touching it before I let my lips follow, only barely brushing over the rough texture. Luckily it's not much likely that it'll leave a scar since it’s not a deep wound, but I'll treasure the memory.

For someone who can't die, someone who doesn't have any scars and who never will have any, I can't help but to marvel at yours. Other people might find them ugly, but I love them, I love you. Those scars show your humanity, your vulnerability, your fragility and yet also your marvellous strength, the amazing wonder of life and love flowing through you, defining you; you're so unbelievably alive and I still can't fathom how it is possible that such a big spark of the incredibility that life is can reside in such a lithe, small and beautiful form such as you.

You already shared that spark with me once, freely, generously, without me even asking for it, without demanding anything in return and still giving so much, making such a huge offer, such an alluring promise to someone who knows so much about darkness as I do and you didn’t even realise it. You guided me to find a path out of the darkness, you were my light showing the way and I'll never be able to repay you, because I'm afraid, afraid to lose control, afraid to break you. There's a profound darkness in my soul, a darkness I don't dare sharing with anyone, least you, because I know and I fear that one day I'm going to drag you, you who is so innocent, into the abyss with me, needing your light, that spark of life and love again to save me from myself.

I slightly shift, my weight dipping the mattress a little and I hear you mumble something that might as much be disapproval as the contrary. „Turn around... please?” I whisper, my lips brushing your ear with every word and I see the muscles at your shoulders and neck twitch slightly in appreciation of my actions.

With a definitively annoyed sigh though you turn to now lie on you back, your thigh sliding along mine in the process, this time causing a violent shiver to run down my spine and my hands to clench into fists, my fingernails digging painfully into my palms to control the sudden flaring of desire setting me aflame, while you just roll your eyes at me, unaware of my predicament.

I try to take deep calming breaths as I look at you lying there in front of me, your eyes only half open and heavy lidded with sleep, as you raise your left eyebrow questioning my actions. My mouth suddenly feels dry as I swallow hard, my hands twitch and I have to concentrate hard to stop them from shaking as I fight the sudden and pressing urge to touch you. You’re not even a full arms length away, almost completely naked, your legs tangled in the blanket and sheets and what I see isn't really helping keeping the arousal at bay. The blueish light gives your skin a strange iridescent glow, those freckles that obviously cover every inch of your skin standing out even more; I love them, they somehow give you an aura of sweet but vulnerable innocence, as if you were still a child.

You have a scar at the right side of your stomach where that kid hit you with a shotgun; every pellet left a small round scar on the skin. I still feel a pang of jealousy looking at it, because in the events after the incident causing these scars you allowed someone else what you so stubbornly deny me; I'm ashamed being jealous of a dead man, a dead man I loved like a son, but I just can't help myself in moments like these. Starting at your pierced navel – I was pretty much astonished when I first saw it actually – I trail tiny slightly wet kisses mixed with gentle nips at your flesh down to the scar, carefully paying attention to every small marred spot of skin I see. The muscles on your stomach flex and I can feel how hard you try to contain that giggling I cause to rise in your chest; looks like I'm actually mainly tickling you.

But I want more and I want it now. My mouth moves further down your stomach, following the line where your thigh connects to your body, causing you to slightly shiver again, until I reach the hem of your panties. That's when one of your hands tangles in my hair, pulling me gently away. „Gwen...” I rasp, my voice hoarse and husky and not even trying to conceal my growing desire.

„That's off limits, and you know it Jack.” Your voice is as soft as it is firm; you’re not going to give in.

„Gwen...”

Under other circumstances I’d found the annoyed look you give me priceless and adorable, but right now I try not to throw a frustrated tantrum. „No.” You shake your head to emphasise your words, the expression of your exhausted and slightly pale face clearly showing that your patience is starting to run thin. „If you really want sex Jack…” You sigh, rolling your eyes at me again, annoyed but not really troubled by my advances. “Go bug your lover, Ianto…” There’s a swift motion of your hand, indicating Iantos soundly sleeping form on the other side of the bed. “…and let me sleep eventually... I'm dead tired.” And the worst of it is... you might say these words, you might send me away but your bright green eyes look at me and just for one second I glimpse the truth in their shining depths, I see that you're denying yourself as much as you deny me. Without sparing me another glance however you squeeze your eyes shut again, roll on your side and wrap yourself tight into the blanket, shielding yourself from my view to finally get some sleep after a long and tedious day; with your breathing starting to even out, your face relaxing, you drift off into the oblivion of sleep almost instantly.

There are moments like these when I need all the control I have not to grab you by your shoulders, shake you thoroughly and yell at you. _„Jesus Christ! Are you stupid? Have you taken leave of your senses? You can't tease a man like that and then trust him to let it go. You can't, you bloody can’t!”_ But you do. You believe in me, you have faith in me beyond any reason and trust me with everything you have, trust me to just let you go over and over again, and you have no idea about the sinful and wicked thoughts running through my head just now as I watch you sleep.

I try not to grind my teeth in frustration; you may be sleeping almost completely naked in my bed next to my also sleeping lover, but there was still a line we had yet to cross.


End file.
